


A broken past, or feasible future?

by heizl



Series: To Be Human [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotions, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memories, Series, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: It was one of those nights where Hank fell down the familiar rabbithole of drinking, bringing up old memories, and drinking even more to try to block them out. He wanted to escape this cycle, he wanted something new and different. And, he thought maybe he’d found it. In Connor. But he hadn’t heard from him since he dropped him off at Jericho, and if he had to judge what the future was going to look like from what he was seeing on the news… it wasn’t promising.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: To Be Human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773634
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56





	1. Call of the void

It was the first day of spring, and that meant it was finally warm enough to play outside without four layers on. Two little wheels coated in fallen flower petals cruised down bumpy pavement. The sidewalk around their apartment was full of cracks, needing to be patched up, but the city didn’t really care about beautifying anything that wasn’t exclusively downtown. Not that the neighboring kids minded much. They made that sidewalk their own, covered in chalk drawings that captured every color of the rainbow and off-centered hopscotch squares. The kids liked to pick the dandelions and run around with them, always filling the air with their boisterous giggles and squeals of blissful innocence. 

Hank was watching through the distortion of the few remaining drops of whiskey in his glass, raised to his dry lips. His phone didn’t do justice how it felt to be there in person; the video was grainy and filmed vertically. Couldn’t feel the grass licking at his wrists as he sat beside his ex-wife, Kathy, in their front lawn. They’d had a plaid blanket they took out on picnics, and it was sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Peaceful, because all he could hear were planes cruising above and Cole humming to himself. The contrast from his current predicament was staggering— he was shivering, couldn’t be bothered to turn up the heat, let alone get another jacket.

The TV was on, and it was gunshot after gunshot. He could hear the whir of helicopters circling the area, see their spotlights shining down the street (that’s why he closed his curtains, for once). His head felt like someone took a jack hammer to it. There were ten ships out to sea and having a war in his stomach. Squinting with one eye, he turned down the brightness on his phone, muted the TV, and stayed glued to the couch. All he wanted to be occupied with was a glass full of his choice of bitter poison. 

He couldn’t taste anymore. The roof of his mouth felt like it’d been scraped raw with sandpaper, throat dryer than the Sahara Desert. But each sip was another breath of relief; it burnt on the way down, and that’s how he knew the medicine worked. These videos felt more like a direct to DVD movie, a happy go lucky romcom where nothing was realistic and all the main characters lived in lala land. He was discovering the plot of these character’s lives for the first time, and it was enjoyable and exciting and precious, because they were ignorant of the storm that loomed over them. 

Cole was so eager to ditch his training wheels, and this was his first ride outside of the house as a changed man; forever mastering the art of riding around the block on his own. He wanted a red bike. All the other kids at his school had hoverboards and electric scooters and all the latest new fancy gadgets, but all he wanted was a simple, old fashioned bike with two wheels. He never begged for anything, he was a good kid. 

Hank remembered when he’d picked Cole up from school once, and he was so mesmerized by a man biking down the street, pulling his kids in a stroller behind. Hank got there a bit early, ten minutes left until the bell rang. He went to more PT meetings than Kathy ever did— hardly had enough time to breathe or sleep when he was off shift, but he always wanted to be there for Cole. Attended nine out of ten conferences, hell, he was practically _on_ the decorating committee for the luncheons. He was friends with all the ladies that worked in the office, and so pulling Cole out a bit ahead of schedule wasn’t that big of an issue. He was rewarded with a wide, toothy grin when Cole realized he could go home early, and spend the rest of the evening with his dad, which was a rare occasion in itself. 

Hank got it. Growing up was hard, and even though times were different now, and kids seemed to be, at least, a _little_ bit less shitty than they were when he was Cole’s age, kids still sucked. Hank was never fond of school, _attending_ school— he loved learning, didn’t like the people he had to learn _with_. Got teased for being a bookworm, got the shit beaten out of him for trying to hang out with the ‘cool crowd’. He always preferred hanging out in bookstores and comic book shops, at least when he was in middle school, before he became obsessed with wanting to fit in, and fell into a hole he didn’t know how to escape. Cooped himself up in his room and played video games and sketched to pass time.

Cole was a lot like him. He was soft spoken, a rather shy kid. But he’d never had any problems making friends. Take him to the pool and Hank would find him splashing around with three other kids. Hank had been that way too: shy. Painfully so. Over the years, he grew more rough around the edges, didn’t take much shit from anyone anymore. But he’d never forget those days of choking up, stuttering in front of an entire class when trying to present something. Smoking only helped calm his nerves so much; he’d never miss detention. God, he’d gotten so many write ups and detention sentences, caught smoking out back by nearly _all_ his teachers over his four years of suffering in that hell school.

That’s when they were heading back to the parking lot and Cole got really distracted. The one single time Cole begged him for anything; he helped him into the car and Cole started saying how he’d been saving up his allowance for a few months now, and he really wanted a bike. His birthday was still a few months away, but Hank made him a deal; he’d get him a bike if that’s what he _really_ wanted, but that’d be his main birthday present. He was ecstatic, and Hank let him keep his pocket money. The day of his birthday came and Hank took him to a park. Kathy had to leave early that afternoon, and he could see the hurt in Cole’s eyes, so he did his best to distract him. Give him his full attention so he’d have at least _one_ attentive parent. 

He didn’t like having training wheels. He wanted to be independant and speed down the bike paths, like a Nascar racer he said. They tried removing the back wheels, and Cole immediately fell over. Gravel stuck to his knees and palms, but he pushed himself up, reassuring Hank he was okay with a chuckle. By the time he’d learned how to balance on his own, the skies were grey and teasing a snow storm.

Kathy always had such shaky hands. She joked that that’s why she went into interior design instead of nursing. He could tell she was the one filming, because every few seconds Cole was completely cut out of frame, or the footage went blurry. He didn’t care, he still loved and cherished it. Once the video ended, he replayed it. Was probably his twelvth time reviewing it, but this was one of the last videos he had of Cole. The short clip once again finished, and he was going to set his phone down, finish off the rest of his Four Roses and head to the kitchen to contemplate what else he wanted to do that night (he had some plans in mind). 

But somehow his thumb (there was a nasty bruise on his knuckles, and he could see it was turning a dark purple) had bumped the screen, and the video minimized, his gallery popping open instead. He had a folder, titled it ‘memories’ and it wasn’t full, less than fifty photos in it. There were a few of Cole, the ones he could manage to save from his old phone. He sighed and set his glass down, leaning further against the cushions behind his sore back. 

Tonight he’d been ready to say one last goodbye because he was done, he was so fucking done with the bullshit of trying to please everyone and get shit in return. It was 2038 and humans still pulled the same old shit they always did; androids weren’t _them_ and so it must’ve meant they were bad. That androids _deviating_ was somehow malicious because humans couldn’t control them anymore. The world made him sick, and he’d been trying to ignore the painful itch that was clawing at the back of his skull all goddamn night. Pestering him to get his ass up and go to the kitchen already, and leave all his anxieties and qualms behind.

He’d depleted most of his alcohol stash, so that’s not what caught his interest, but the revolver on his dining table. He bit his lip and flicked through the photos— drink the urge away, drown the demons out, is what he reasoned. Didn’t work most of the time, but he needed to hold on. He peered at the TV again. Needed to hold on until there was a verdict. So far the protests had only just begun, and they were still quite peaceful. Well, peaceful from Jericho’s side. Hundreds of androids had been shot dead, the streets coated in shiny blue.

Cole’s first steps, and the one picture he had to remember it by looked like it was shot on a potato, pixelated beyond belief. Still brought a smile to his face though. And a portrait of Cole with a generic backdrop behind him, the kind they use for yearbooks. The one time Kathy insisted they get cheesy family pictures taken at a department store, and he was thankful for it. Cole had put up a fight, not that Hank could blame him; he didn’t want to go either. Cole hated being fussed with, when his hair was brushed and he was told to wear his nice shirts. Hank’s palms felt clammy. He moved to the next photo, a few of Sumo as a baby with his mangled fur, mindlessly flipping until he reached the end of the galley. He went to his general photos instead; tonight was going to be a tour down memory lane.

He never took photos himself… or _of_ himself. Sometimes he’d snap one of the sunset, or sunrise more likely, of a meal he had, or Sumo getting into trouble (like the time he wound up with whipped cream all over his face). A few sideways shots of some records he bought, and then he stopped, and his breath caught. He felt like he was choking on ice; he was fucking cold from the inside out, breaking out into an instantaneous sweat. Like when you’ve been putting something off for far too long, and the consequences finally catch up to you, and you panic. That sort of terrified, out of body feeling.

There were about six photos of Connor leaning over his desk, overhead lights blaring down and creating aesthetic lens flares as he stared into the cameras soul, his own expression hardly changing besides his subtle smirk. Another bout of six and he was in Hank’s car; it was dark, and there was a cast of neon pink across his clouded face. His hair was messy, had fallen into his face, but his eyes were more… alive here. A glimmer of something as he kept his thick brows quirked. He didn’t know when the hell he’d taken those, or how he’d gotten into his phone, but fuck if looking at them didn’t feel like he running through a maze of pins. He brushed his fingers over his cheek, and the picture drastically zoomed into his freckles. He felt like he had heartburn, but, he also knew that’s not what this was. 

He missed him, more than he was willing to admit. He didn’t want to get attached, that was his rule from the start. That maybe if he took out his aggression on the kid, he wouldn’t see him as anything more than a glorified computer designed to get their case done. He didn’t want to like Connor, he didn’t want to accept that every time he avoided gunfire, or got merely grazed with a bullet that his stomach flipped and he could feel his world freeze. That seeing Connor with a bloody nose or scratch made all the memories of Cole come flooding back; Cole was choking on his own blood, Hank’s jacket stained as he held his boy close, screaming for a doctor when they rushed into the emergency department. It was easy for him to imagine Connor in that same scenario, dead in his goddamn arms, and that fucking scared him. 

Connor was _alive_. Hank knew that from the start, he did, and he knew how fucking wrong he’d been all those years for backtalking service workers. He never wanted an android nanny to watch over Cole, and so he’d sometimes haul him to the station because that was the only feasible alternative in his mind (Jeffrey didn’t mind either, he loved kids, especially Cole). But he felt like he needed to put the blame on someone, because he couldn’t accept that life decided to do him dirty and take the one thing that made life worth living away from him. He couldn’t accept that his son died because of another human’s incompetence, because he wanted to have more faith in humanity than that.

Hank could see it, in the way Connor studied his surroundings; he was very observant. And it wasn’t just some integration program that prompted him to ask about Hank’s life, start small talk with him. Play with Sumo and tickle his tummy and smile when Sumo kissed him in return. He’d asked to borrow his iPod so he could check out a few of the bands Hank had played CDs of, and Connor made dad jokes shittier than Hank’s own, and he was _there_ when they talked.

They’d stopped early once to get breakfast and Hank parked in the lot; it was nicer out, low forties that day, and so he rolled the window down. That particular area had an infestation of seagulls and pigeons, probably because no one bothered to pick up their trash. The flying rats with wings took notice of Hank’s meal and kept trying to find their way into the car. Connor laughed his ass off at Hank’s struggle to get the window up in time; their beaks were slamming into the windshield, pecking at his roof, it was something straight out of _The_ _Birds_. Connor asked if he could have a few bread crumbs, and Hank questioned him at first, but eventually gave in. He went out there, throwing crumbs at the birds, and Hank knew that wasn’t something Cyberlife told him to do. That was _Connor_.

He didn’t know where he was, if he’d made it _out_ of Jericho safely, if he was still trying to stalk down Markus. He’d fucking hoped not. The last time he’d seen Connor was a few hours ago; they frantically sped to a thrift store so he could piece together a disguise. Hank dropped him off, and, Connor didn’t really want to get out of his car. Unlocked it, waited for him to leave, and his hand hovered over the handle for a good three minutes. His breathing had gone heavy, and Connor kept his gaze focused straight ahead. He finally left.

Connor didn’t call him, not like Hank asked him to. Because, again, it was that wanting to keep a safe distance from caring way too much in case something did happen to him. He’d only cry a little, throw back a drink for his fallen comrade. Not think about losing another son. They blew up the ship, and Hank couldn’t make Connor out of the mass of people marching. He just really fucking hoped he was alive. The kid was tough, he wasn’t going to go down that easily. That’s what he told himself at least.

He turned off his phone, and didn’t get up. Instead he sighed and cupped his face with both hands. His breaths were warm against his exposed arms, but he still had goosebumps. Sumo barked, and he sounded fuzzy, like a Skype call breaking up, except this wasn’t Skype and they were in the same room. He barked louder this time, and Hank turned to look at him. Instead of craning only his neck, his entire body moved with, and he knocked over his bottle of whiskey, its remains spilling across the coffee table like a tsunami. It seeped into a few books, staining pages, and pooled across the top of his phone, dripping onto the floor.

“ _God fucking damnit_ ,” he slurred. His own voice seemed distant, like someone else was speaking for him. There was a heavy handed, insistent knocking coming from the front door, and with each bang a freshly sharpened dagger stabbed into Hank’s skull. Sumo wouldn’t stop fucking barking and now he was up on his hindlegs, scratching with his little razor blade nails. It made Hank’s jaw tense so hard he thought it might snap like uncooked spaghetti.

“ _Sumo_ , get down, boy,” he wiped his phone off with his shirt and stumbled his way into the kitchen, keeping balance by gripping for dear life onto a chair. His knuckles hurt, and they whittened under the pressure of his grip. “Fuck,” he breathed through his nostrils. He was starting to question if he had a pair of rollerskates on, because he couldn’t stop swaying in place. He was gonna hurl, he knew it. He had to keep it together though, he couldn’t lose his shit yet. He grabbed his gun; one bullet, but that was enough to keep an intruder out. His door sounded like it was about to be knocked off its hinges. 

“ _Jesus Christ_ , I’m _coming_ ,” he called out. Now he was agitated. Who the fuck was at his door in the first place— he never got any visitors. But, also, at ten o’clock, during curfew? 

“ _Hank_.” The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and Connor’s voice alone was enough to sober him up. Not all the way, but enough that he wasn’t in a frantic stupor anymore. Speak of the goddamn devil. “I-I need to talk to you, please. I need your help.”

“Oh, thank God,” he sighed with relief, and without much thought, he dropped the gun on his couch, maybe in poor judgement. “Hang on, I’m coming, kid.” He balled his fist under Sumo’s collar, gently pulling and holding him back as he undid the top two locks. He yanked the door back. Connor was standing there with that doe-eyed look he’d wear more often, and his smile was extremely lopsided, and it _also_ looked like he had two heads. But, yeah, he was just glad to see him. More than glad.

“Holy shit, you’re still _alive_ ,” he was breathless. Wasting no time, he looked over Connor’s shoulders, both ways, and then grabbed him. He pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. Sumo pranced over to the other side of the couch, hiding nervously… which wasn’t really like him. But he was so worried about Connor that he didn’t think much of his reaction, and Connor seemed very uncomfortable with having Hank squeezing his shoulder (probably way too tight, too), but now he was using him like a walking cane. If he let go, he was going to topple over. “Are you— you’re okay? God, Connor, you could’ve fucking called me. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. I didn’t think you’d be so worried,” he replied blunt, and then cocked his head. Hank’s eyes bounced all over him; the first thing he noticed was, he was back in uniform. In that jacket he’d expressed mild discomfort for. So maybe he… didn’t deviate. He didn’t want to feel sad, or something akin to shame, not yet. He didn’t want to feel _anything_.

“Probably shouldn’t be. I know you can hold your own,” he half chuckled, but then he only sighed. “Con, I told you, you could use the spare key for emergencies.” 

Connor pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, shifting on the balls of his feet. His eyes wandered around his house; most of the lights were off, but he was still observing the sparse decorations he had, glancing at the news, _glaring_ at Sumo. "Right... and, where is that again?"

Hank scrunched his nose. He thought androids were like elephants; they never forgot. "Nah, nevermind. I can just give you one.”

“Lieutenant, have you been drinking?”

“What else am I ‘pposed to do when you’re gone?” He tried to laugh, but it fell short, dull. He finally let his arm drop, and instead, found his way back to the couch, moving the gun to set it on top of one of the only dry books. He could hear Sumo whimpering, so he reached to pet him. “You’re okay. It’s Connor. You remember him, hm?” he cooed.

“Hank, I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time, but I’m… I’m _scared_.”

His lips thinned. He gave the spot next to him a pat. “C’mere, sit. Talk to me.”

He sat beside Hank, hands pressed to his knees. He sat so tightly coiled, it made Hank even more on edge than he already was. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I feel like I’m… I might be malfunctioning. I don’t want to be deactivated.”

Hank leaned his elbow against the couch, supporting his head up with his palm. Everything was still hazy, but he took a deep breath. He needed to focus. “I’m assuming you talked to Markus.”

Connor nodded, and he looked away for a split second. “Yeah.”

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“I couldn’t shoot it. I-I,” he brushed a hand through his short brown locks. He wasn’t blinking much, nor was he breathing. Calling Markus an _it_. “I found it. It was hiding away from everyone else and it thought it was so clever, holing himself on the quarterdeck. I went in there, gun trained on it, and I couldn’t shoot, Hank. Like at Kamski’s, when I looked at that android. I saw the same fear in it’s eyes, and I _couldn’t_ pull the trigger. It was scared to die. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Hank sighed. “No, Connor, there… isn’t anything wrong with you. I think _we’ve_ fucked up, though. We’ve been chasing after people that only want to be free— you didn’t shoot him ‘cause you _know_ we’re on the wrong side.”

“Are we, though?”

“I think so.” He looked at the tv; they had their hands raised, all of them, Markus standing center of the pack. They had a flag with a symbol of peace inscribed, and yet every other news station was making this out to be some kind of ‘violent uprising’ and ‘android rebellion’ when all they wanted was to be treated equally, and be seen as what they are— people. “Look. Look at them. They’re not doing _anything_ , Connor, they’re just standing there. And we want them dead? For asking to not be treated like fucking slaves?” 

“This isn’t what was supposed to happen. I didn’t complete my mission, I didn’t—”

“Forget about the fucking mission,” Hank came across more aggressive than he intended, and he saw Connor flinch. “These are _your_ people. You really wanna turn against them like that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think, or do, anymore, Hank. That’s why I’m here, because I need your guidance.” 

“Are you a—” Hank’s tone died down to a whisper, like they were exchanging secrets. “Did you deviate?” 

Connor didn’t answer. So Hank gestured to his jacket, glowing an ungodly bright blue. “Why’re you back in this? I thought you didn’t like this thing.”

“I have one last chance to stop this. Jericho sent someone to infiltrate the main Cyberlife HQ downtown, and I need you, Hank. If we don’t stop this now, there’s only going to be chaos, and war. I don’t know why I couldn’t shoot before, but if I don’t stop them now, Cyberlife will _destroy_ me.”

“Why’s it matter if Cyberlife destroys you or not when they’re gonna control everything you do anyways. That’s not living. Jesus, Connor, I thought you’d changed. I’m not gonna help you.”

Sumo slowly paced over to them, stopping in front of Connor. Connor pulled his legs closer to the couch, his fists tightening. “Easy there… dog.”

Hank’s brows quirked. _Dog_? Connor loved Sumo. What the hell was going on. “You’ve met him before, don’t be shy.”

Sumo stepped closer, his paws pressing down on Connor’s patent leather loafers. He sniffed his knees. And then he growled in a way that Hank had never heard before. He started barking again, jumping to press down on Connor’s lap.

“Hey, _hey,_ Sumo!” Hank pulled on his collar, trying to hold him back, but he was relentless. Connor pushed against his chest, before he hit him across the snout. Sumo stumbled, stunned, and that gave Connor enough time to stand up. Hank’s mouth fell open. “Jesus fucking Christ, don’t hit my goddamn dog, asshole!”

Hank saw where Connor’s eyes were trained; his gun. As he let go of Sumo, Connor had the upper hand. He grabbed his gun, trained it on Hank. 

“Yes, you are.” 


	2. and now, we rest.

What a fucking night this had been. Hank felt like he could sleep for centuries and still be drained. He took in a long drag of grey, and held his breath; the stench brought back memories of the countless fights he had with Kathy about not smoking around the house, how its odor lingered on all her nice cocktail dresses and people at work started giving her questioning glances. He didn’t fucking care. He hadn’t smoked in seven years though— for Cole’s sake. He made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t smoke around him.

He exhaled, letting his head fall forward. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was bouncing on his feet, because it was damn cold, but the cold was worth it. He needed a distraction right now, he’d take any. The comfort his earlier booze session brought was wearing thin, and he wasn’t about to go find an open store to get more, _if_ any were even open still. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. His finger pulled back the trigger, and he watched as the bullet sped through the air like a comet. For a split second, he wondered if he made a mistake. He took another puff. Hank didn’t like being used, didn’t like playing games. He fucking hated games, that’s why his marriage never worked out, because all she did was play games.

He watched that _Connor_ , android, whoever, fall to his knees, and it still hurt. Because he had his face. It wasn’t him, but he was only reminded how easily it was for life to go away just like that. With the snap of your fingers.

Connor smiled at him in the same way Cole did when he said he could have a bike. He looked hopeful, and it was obvious he wanted to say more— obvious they both did. Hank waited around for a few more minutes before he patted his back.

“ _Go get ‘em, kiddo._ ”

He called a cab, and now he was back here. Alone with himself. He threw the rest of his dying cig in the snow and went back inside, because he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself tonight. The TV was still on, not that he wanted to look. He sat down anyways. All the lights were off, and he’d pulled a few blankets and pillows from his bed, wrapped himself up nice and tight in them. Sumo wiggled his way across his lap. 

Hank wasn’t always that glass half full kind of guy. He was more… the glass is in another room, it’s probably empty, but it doesn’t matter because nothing matters, type of guy. He wasn’t feeling very hopeful about tonight. More tanks were piling in, and they were preparing to fire as the remaining protestors left their barricades. He was starting to drift off, his eyes fluttering, everything going from full HD color to pitch black nothingness in a matter of seconds. But he snapped himself out of it. He needed to stay awake, he _needed_ to make sure Connor made it.

The focus drifted back to the male reporter in the helicopter; he was speaking, quite frantically at that, looking and pointing back at the grounds. Hank quickly unmuted it. 

“ _What_ is _that? There seems to be something coming in the distance… more military_?” 

The camera zoomed, quick enough to give anyone whiplash. An army wearing matching stark white, looking so out of place marching through the bleary city. A symbol of hope despite the surrounding death and destruction. And at the front of the thousands, leading them, was Connor. He looked controlled, almost expressionless, but he could see it as they zoomed on his face; that subtle little smile he often wore.

“No fuckin’ shit. Crazy sunova bitch did it,” he laughed, astounded. He turned to Sumo, brushing a hand over his ears. “He _did_ it.” 

He wasn’t shocked that Connor would do it— he believed in him. He knew he’d make it out of there, at least he really tried to not let the negative outcomes take over and focus on the positive possibilities. But now he was more so… scared? Connor wouldn’t have to live by their rules anymore, he wouldn’t be property of Cyberlife. He’d be Connor, and he’d have a life, and Hank didn’t know what the hell that meant. If that meant he was part of it, if Jeffrey wanted to officially make him part of the team.

His phone buzzed, and he was pulled out of his thoughts. He peeked down at the screen; new text message, from _Jeff_. He flicked it open.

 **Jeff-** 12:29 AM

Your boys on the news.

He scoffed to himself. Yeah, he was. Standing tall and present for the rest of the world to see.

 **Me-** 12:30 AM

i see that

**Jeff-** 12:31 AM

See you tomorrow. Take it easy, Hank.

 **Me-** 12:35 AM

you too, jeff. goodnight

  
  


* * *

Hank woke up and the station was nothing but static, programming off the air. There was as much backlash as there was praise, and of course, some people’s concerns were reasonable. What was going to happen next, what did this mean for the city of Detroit, when will it be safe to go outside again, and so on. After hearing Warren’s speech, he flipped over to some movie to get his mind off of things, pretend like life was maybe a little bit normal again, and passed out. He was curled into Sumo, his neck a nice, fluffy pillow. 

Hank rubbed a hand down his face, smacking his lips. He reached for the controller, but his phone lit up the room. He had one new voicemail. 

He typed in his passcode and opened up his inbox. The call was from a few hours ago, and the number was unknown. It didn’t look like a typical number— only nine digits were showing. 

He pushed himself up, carefully (Sumo stirred, but he was still passed out in puppy dreamland), and stumbled his way down the hall. He turned on the bathroom light and held the phone to his ear.

" _We won. We won, Hank. We did it_.” Hank’s hand was shaking. He cupped his mouth, and he blinked, and his eyes stung, but these were happy tears. Really good tears.

Fuck, fatherhood was scary, but it’d be easier doing it a second time since he already played the demo, right? He was attached.

The message ended, and he called him back. The call connected instantly. It was silent from the other end, but he was smiling. “Connor.”


End file.
